Doomed from the Descent
by Anticipating Boxes
Summary: AU John Winchester knows his son is different, dangerous, even a little demonic. He does what he can to be a good father, to make the right decisions to protect his family. It's just that in the process he fails to be a good human being.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes**: Angelface universe. A story that explains some of (but not all of) how Sam and Dean got to the point they're at now, how they could have turned out so dark and different. And it all starts with one little change in a decision made by a demon, a sideways approach to a problem of blood and dilution.

Obviously can be read on its own.

* * *

John Winchester had seen and experienced a lot of bizarre, screwed up things in his lifetime. He was ex-marine, several tours of duty under his belt, and while now he was nothing more than the owner of the local garage he still possessed enough mental and physical control to combat the thing inhabiting his skin. Perhaps not well, but hard enough that the black presence was forced to clamp down on him hard, squeezing his consciousness like a vice.

"Calm down, calm down." John felt the words come from his own mouth with no instruction from him, his voice soothing. "This is just a temporary intrusion. I'll be gone before you even know it."

John tried to protest, to demand answers. He wasn't crazy. There was someone else in his body with him and they had to want something.

"Just twenty four hours of your time," John heard his own voice say. "Nobody will even know. You'll come home this time tomorrow and everything will be just fine. I just need your body for one measly day."

Why should he? How did he know he could trust the thing? John posed the questions with a furious fervour, as loud as he could without actually being able to wrest back the control of his voice.

"I'll make you a deal." John felt his face form a smile. "We never break deals, my kind. It's our only mark of honour. Now listen, you make this deal and I promise that nobody gets hurt. You don't make the deal and I'll make sure it's not just you who suffers. You like your wife and child alive don t you, John?"

Horror thrilled through his being like a living force, crushing his resistance with the perfect threat. Yes. Fine, John thought furiously at the thing, I'll take the deal. Twenty-four hours and nobody gets so much as a paper cut from you.

"Deal, Johnny-boy."

John blacked out into numbness. It was like being asleep, floating somewhere just out of reach of consciousness. He came back to himself at exactly five forty-six in the afternoon of the next day and outwardly acts as if the entire experience had never happened. If perhaps he stopped by the library a few times to do a little research, looking at spirits and demons and possession, he told nobody. He kept it from his friends, from Mary, not wanting them to think he was crazy. He was relieved as hell that his wife had never asked him about those twenty four hours that he had been missing. So relieved that he never noticed that something might be wrong.

John didn't realise that he had been tricked until much, much later.

In fact, he didn't realise until one week after Mary's funeral.

She had been killed in a hit and run crash on the way to pick Dean up from school. John had gotten the call two hours later, too late to pretend for Dean's sake that everything was going to be ok. The next week had been a blur, and John remembered little except the sober dread that he felt at his wife's funeral knowing he would have to keep living without her in his life.

John had allowed himself that one week of open grieving before he picked himself up again to be the strong presence that his children needed. He started going through Mary's things, sorting her life into three separate piles - things to donate, things to keep in storage, and things that needed to stay exactly where they were. That was when he found her family's legacy hiding in a shoebox in her side of the closet.

Dean was seven, and Sam was only two years old, when John found out about hunters, about Mary's family, and the deal his wife had made with the 'yellow-eyed demon' nearly twelve years ago - just after he had decided he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

It all came together in bits and pieces, the big picture far too terrible to take in all at once.

Twenty four hours. Ten years after Mary made her deal with the demon. She had never asked where he went. As far as she knew he had never been gone. They hadn't been trying for another child when Mary had discovered she was pregnant again. John had always considered Sam to be a happy accident, but now he began to wonder.

He realised his first practical lesson in the world of the supernatural as he looked at the lost little toddler who was his son but wasn't. Never trust a demon.

-

* * *

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't shoot you where you stand."

The man swayed, bloody and bruised, his weapon kicked to a far flung corner. He'd lost, and he knew it. He stared up at John Winchester over the shotgun barrels pointed at his face, the white of one eye stained a bloody red, a popped blood vessel making his vision fuzzy. "Your son," the man growled, "is a born killer. Don't fool yourself, Winchester. He'll turn on you. Demons can't be trusted."

The five year old in question was currently in the back seat of the car, being guarded by his nine year old brother. John didn't have to look to know that his boys were crying. John's eyes hardened. He said four words, and pulled the trigger.

"That's not good enough."

The man collapsed, his face torn to pieces by buckshot. He gurgled on the ground, bleeding out fast, and was dead by the time John had slung the shotgun back over his shoulder. "He's my son," John told the fallen shell of the hunter. "No god-damned hunter is going to get near him."

John forced his features to soften as he returned to the car to reassure his sons. Sam's unusual heritage had only just begun to make itself known. The boy didn't know he was doing it, John reasoned, couldn't help it. Things moved when Sam got upset; Just little things, like a vase tipping over without a breeze, or bits of paper flying around the room. Somehow that equated to potential evil, somehow the reality of Sam's demon blood had been leaked.

John knew exactly who to blame for that. He had looked for answers in only two places, giving the secret to only two people. John knew which one of them would have talked.

He kept the steel from his eyes as he comforted Sam and Dean, telling his boys how good they'd been to stay in the car like he told them. John resolved to start teaching his boys how to shoot just as soon as he could trust them with guns. Dean he would start teaching almost straight away. Sam would need a few more years before his coordination was good enough to think about giving the kid a weapon.

In the meantime, one was never too young to learn how to meditate. Maybe that would help Sam control the things that happened when he lost his temper.

-

* * *

Six shots lined up along the fence, coke cans and soda bottles. The pistol looked huge in nine year old hands. Eight rounds, six targets.

Dean's face was scrunched up in anticipating as he lined up his shot and took aim just like his father had shown him. He squeezed the trigger slowly, keeping his eyes open to make sure his aim didn't waver. the pistol jumped in his hands, the shock of the recoil zipping up his arms. The old glass soda bottle shattered right through the middle, and Dean turned to the next target feeling more confident now that he knew what to expect.

Five bullets later and six targets lay on the ground, aluminium pierced through the centre and glass bottles shattered on impact.

John clapped his son on the shoulder, unspoken pride radiating from his whole being.

"Wow!" Sam exclaimed, his brown eyes wide. "That was so cool, Dean!"

At the next diner they stopped at John bought both of his sons huge strawberry milkshakes. He didn't tell the waitress what they were celebrating, or own up to it when Sam accidentally caused the clock bolted to the wall to fall from its perch.

-

* * *

Sam only spent two years in public school before John decided it was better to teach him at home. Sam was a nice kid, a smart kid, he did well in classes and made friends easily. It was just that, despite daily meditation and focus exercises, Sam was still a seven year old boy. Not even the best and brightest seven year old can keep hold of his temper all of the time.

It usually wasn't that bad. Light bulbs broke sometimes when Sam was tired and frustrated in the afternoons, sometimes a pencil would snap or a window would suddenly open a crack without being touched. But when Sam managed to push another kid down a flight of stairs in full view of his entire class - without laying a hand on the boy or (as he later confessed) even meaning to do it - John decided that was the last straw.

He pulled Sam out of school that very afternoon, right after picking him up from the Principal's office. The worst thing was that the school seemed glad to be rid of him. That was sick, John thought, that they were relieved to be rid of a kid like Sam who wanted nothing more than to learn and make friends his own age.

"I didn't mean to push him down the stairs, daddy."

John glanced over his shoulder to look at Sam in the back of the car. The boy sat looking down at his knees, crumpled forlornly in the middle of the back seat, one of his shoelaces coming untied, a healing scab on his left knee. John sighed. "I know, kiddo. I know you didn't."

"He was just being mean," Sam continued, his lower lip quivering because he knew it was his fault the other boy had fallen and broken his leg, despite the fact that it could never be proven. "He called me a freak and I got mad. I pushed him with my mind, but I didn't mean for him to go down the stairs."

"Sam..." John shook his head. Accidents happened, but even so; "Sam, you shouldn't push people just because they make you mad. Remember what I told you? You only use your powers, or your fists, if you have a real reason. Words can't hurt you, son."

Even as he said it, John knew it wasn't true. Words could have a huge impact, especially on a child. Especially on a boy like Sam, who already had enough to deal with.

-

John gave Sam his first pistol when he was nine, the same age Dean had gotten his first .45. They were in the country at the time, renting a small cottage on the edge of a huge citrus orchard, which meant there was plenty of room for target practice and no need to worry about anyone wandering in the way of a stray bullet.

John had put down his first demon a month before they moved in. He now had the 'official' name for what Sam was, and confirmation that it wasn't only hunters that he needed to keep his boys safe from.

"Why does Sam need to learn to shoot?" Dean asked, cocking a sawn-off and taking aim at the white ring painted on the side of a twisted old lemon tree. "You know he could just learn to kill people with his mind."

John ignored the sound of the shotgun blast to show Sam the correct way to hold his pistol. He stepped back to let Sam take aim on his own. Dean was thirteen and surly, pissed off at having to move to the country and away from a girl that he liked in the last town they'd lived in. "You boys are too young to be thinking about killing," John informed his sons, watching like a hawk as Sam squeezed the trigger. "I'm teaching you self defence, that's all."

Sam's first shot hit the tree, but not the target. He shook out his hands before taking aim again. "Why not?" he demanded, staring at the target as if he could will the bullet there with his mind alone. Perhaps he could. John wasn't going to rule anything out yet when it came to Sam's abilities. "You killed before."

"I killed when it was practical," John replied simply. "When there's no other solution, understand? There are people out there who want to hurt you boys, those are the only people you ever raise a gun to."

He didn't know it then, but he would change his mind only a few years later.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes**: Sort of dedicated to Epsylon, who may be one of only two reasons I keep writing these things.

* * *

John shot the motel clerk.

Two thirty in the afternoon, hours after they were supposed to have checked out, the clerk had pounded on the door. John had been in the tiny bathroom at the time, razor in hand as he took the time to shave off his beard. John answered the door, absently wiping his face clear of left-over smudges of shaving cream with a grayish towel.

He had not been expecting to see the motel's clerk standing outside.

The clerk was holding up a photocopy of John's ID, and the credit card he'd used to check in with. The other man's face was grim. "I don't like men who try to cheat me," he said, as gruff as a tenor voice could ever hope to be. "Whoever you are, this aint you. I ran your card, and it declined so I called up the company. Wouldn't you know, they told me that this card was reported stolen a few days ago. So you better tell me who you really are and hand over the night's rent or I'll be calling the cops."

John was frozen in the doorway. Several thoughts occurred to him one after the other. He had no permanent job, no permanent identity - since he and his boys had left Lawrence they had been through at least a dozen last names in as many cities. When he wasn't using a false identity to pick up odd jobs John survived by pulling credit fraud and gambling in bars, always cheating of course. He was a cardsharp, a con artist, and if the police were called then social services would be hot on their tail. Social services would take his boys away.

Dean could get out easily enough, he was fifteen, old enough to be declared independent by the state if he could prove his ability to look after himself. But Sam, with his unusual array of gifts...

"Of course," John said, throwing the towel over his shoulder. He stepped aside to the let the clerk into the motel room. "I'm sorry. Look, I'll give you the money in cash, ok? No need to call anyone."

"We'll see."

The guy sounded so cocky. John had a feeling he'd pocket the cash and call the cops anyway. He closed the door, spared a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure the curtains were drawn shut. Most of the guns were still hidden in the car, but there was one in John's duffle. He unzipped the bag and pretended to be searching for his wallet. "You're a pretty sharp guy," John said, talking so he could keep the clerk's full attention away from John's hands. "The first one to call up the credit company instead of just coming to ask for another card."

He checked the gun, making sure it was loaded, then turned with it held in his hands. "This," he told the suddenly very frightened clerk, "is why people don't call the credit company."

The clerk started to shout, the sound cut off abruptly with a gunshot. John looked down at the resulting mess, the stain spreading on the carpet, and swore. It occurred to him only belatedly that he should have made the guy get into the bathtub first.

He checked the time, two thirty-five. John put the safety back on and threw the gun back into his bag. He dragged the still-warm corpse into the bathroom, dumping it on the tiles before the carpet could be soaked through with any more blood.

The clerk's pockets contained a set of keys, a mostly empty pack of gum, six dollars, and a crumpled receipt. One of the keys was labelled 'office'.

John was out and walking towards the office building in a trice, motel room door locked behind him. The office door was already unlocked and empty, but the door to get in behind the counter required both a key and some jiggling of the handle before John was in. He hunted for the record books, rifling through diaries bound in fake leather and employee time sheets before he found what he was looking for - the work roster for that week.

The clerk's shift wouldn't be over until six.

John breathed a small sigh of relief. And while he was there behind the counter he busted open the safe under the desk and stuffed the contents into his pockets. His fingerprints would be all over the place, but it was too late to do anything about that now short of setting fire to the whole office.

After a small moment's indecision he decided he was not going to set fire to the office.

John put up the 'back in five minutes' sign that he found, and switched the lights on the sign outside to 'no vacancy'. He locked the office door, tossed the keys into the nearby, scraggly garden bed. It was, at best, a time grab. He had to get out, get his boys out, as quickly as possible.

He pulled Sam out of school first, grabbing him from his class just before the school day ended. It was a miracle that nobody noticed the smears of blood on his jacket. Sam did, but he knew to keep quiet until they were in the car and on the way to Dean's high school.

"That's not your blood," Sam observed, with all the solemnity an eleven year old could muster. "Are we going to have to move again?"

"I'm afraid so, Sammy." John tried to play it down, smiling at his son in the rear-view mirror. "I thought we could head north for a while, have ourselves a white winter."

They caught Dean just as he was leaving the school grounds. John couldn't help but feel strangely proud when Dean identified the situation straight away with just a glance at his father's face and the blood on his jacket. "Was it a cop?" Dean asked, sliding into the front seat. "Or a hunter?"

John didn't answer. His knuckles turned white from gripping the steering wheel too hard.

Dean raised his eyebrows but seemed to decide that it was better not to dig for details just yet. "Ok, so where are we going this time?"

"Dad says we're going north," Sam piped up from the back seat. He had already settled into their travel routine, pulling out a book from his backpack. "So we can see the snow in winter."

-

* * *

Sam's eyes flashed yellow for the first time when he was twelve years old, about the same time as he began a monumental growth spurt and his voice began to crack and deepen.

Dean wasn't there when it happened, but he was there for the immediate aftermath. When he arrived to pick Sam up from the principal's office an ambulance was still lingering in the staff parking lot. Dean knew immediately that whatever had happened, Sam had been the cause. He caught sight of broken windows in a second storey classroom and lengthened his stride.

He looked casual and collected when he stepped into the office. The perfect picture of a nice, wholesome young man - if a little rough around the edges. His jeans were torn, but his smile was genuinely apologetic as he approached the desk. "I'm here to pick up my little brother, Sam. Winchester," he clarified a moment later, as if it were entirely possible that more than one kid named Sam had gotten into serious trouble that day.

The receptionist, Gina Winters, arched her finely plucked eyebrows. "We called your father, John Winchester."

"Yeah." Dean shrugged, putting on a practised 'what can you do' smile. "He's on a business trip, so I got sent down here instead. That's cool, isn't it? I mean, I've got ID if you need to check me out." He pulled his wallet out of his jeans pocket and showed her his newly-acquired driver's licence.

Gina eyed the little plastic card suspiciously. She gave a short nod, then pushed a button on the intercom on her desk. "Principal Westberk, Sam Winchester's brother is here to pick him up."

There was a short pause, then a crackling, distorted male voice came through the speaker box. "Thankyou, Gina. Could you send him in please?"

Dean smiled at the receptionist as he was waved through into the principal's office, and kept smiling even as he saw Sam seated on a small, hard-backed chair by the window. The younger boy was staring outside at the ambulance, a sullen expression on his face.

The principal, Westberk, was a tall man who was going bald and clearly doing everything in his power to hide it. He looked nice enough as principals went, decent enough to smile when Dean offered him a hand to shake.

"Sorry my dad couldn't make it," Dean said, giving the older man a rueful and charming smile. "He's away on business until the weekend, so I'm looking after Sammy 'til he gets back."

"I had really hoped to talk to your father," Westberk replied, sitting himself back down behind the single, cluttered mahogany desk. "I'm afraid we don't quite know what to do with your brother at present and, er, we were hoping your father might shed some light on..."

"What exactly did Sam do?" Dean asked, cutting in when it looked as if the principal wasn't going to continue.

"Frankly, we're not sure." Westberk looked unsettled. He glanced at Sam, whose shoulders stiffened as if he knew he was being watched. "Our best guess is that he used some kind of explosive or accelerant, but as yet nobody has found any evidence of such a device. Several windows just exploded and it's as if a small tornado tore through his class."

"But you couldn't find any proof that Sammy did it."

Westberk gave him a sharp look. Dean stood his ground, letting nothing through except a small, polite smile. Eventually the principal shook his head. "Both Sam's teacher and his classmates all claim that he was behind it. Some of the children are claiming that he did it with his 'powers', that his eyes turned yellow and he caused the windows to explode using his mind."

"Kids." Dean shrugged, placid smile still on his face. "Gotta love their imaginations."

"But," Westberk said, speaking as if he hadn't heard Dean. "Regardless of the story, everyone seems to agree that Sam is the one responsible for the mess. And had we any evidence regarding incendiary substances, your brother would be facing expulsion. As it stands, he will be suspended for the rest of the week, and when he comes back he will be attending detention after school until his attitude improves."

"That sounds fair," Dean agreed. "Can I take him home now?"

Sam was quiet until they got home, and Dean didn't try to force him to talk. The small apartment that they were renting was only three rooms, plus bathroom, but it was better than any motel and paid up in advance for six months. Dean let Sam dump his school bag on the floor and stomp off to his room and sat down in front of the TV to wait until his brother was ready to talk.

An hour later Sam slunk back into the living room. "Julius MacKinnley called me a freak."

"Some kid named Julius called _you_ a freak?" Dean asked, and whistled.

"He said it in front of the whole class," Sam elaborated. He slouched his way over to the sofa and sat down beside Dean, arms crossed. "They laughed. All of them laughed, Dean. It was just some dumb history assignment."

"So you blew up the classroom?"

Sam's reply was to slouch further down on the sofa, his lower lip sticking out in an obvious pout. "They can't prove anything."

"You're still suspended, dude." Dean threw an arm over his brother's shoulders in an act of solidarity. "The principal said the other kids were saying your eyes turned yellow."

"My eyes felt weird. I didn't know they were yellow."

"You know I'm going to have to tell dad."

"I know." Sam sighed. His arms slowly uncrossed. He sat up a little straighter. "At least I didn't really hurt anyone," he muttered rebelliously. "They only called the ambulance because some girl fell over and cut herself on the glass. The other kids are just a bunch of cry babies."

Dean snorted. "You're telling me. Wait til you get to high school, Sam."

-

* * *

It was mid-winter when the file was first escalated to a federal level. By coincidence or not the last killing had been in Virginia, and so that was the office the file initially went to. Agent Matthew Doyle was the man unlucky enough to have the file cross his desk. A simple manila folder marked 'John Winchester'.

The man who would later be christened the 'Black Truck Killer' by the media.

Doyle read through the file thinking to himself that this would be just like any other murder case. It would drag on a while, but eventually they would be able to find enough leads and enough evidence to send the man straight to the table for a lethal injection. The number of killings listed in black type on the very first page of the report suggested otherwise.

Eleven.

Eleven of the same before anyone had ever thought to connect them all together, and only five of those confirmed with fingerprints or security cameras. The rest were only descriptions, eye witness accounts that fit the MO and described the perpetrator in terms narrow enough to maybe fit John's appearance. He was shocked that nobody had managed to pull the plates on the truck.

Military background, a wife twelve years dead and two kids that were being dragged around after their murderer father made the situation worse. Doyle became determined not to let this one drag on for too long.

He sipped his extra-large triple-shot espresso and started creating a proper tracking system for this guy. There would be a pattern sooner or later. There always was.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes**: Open to suggestions for extra scenes, since it turns out my draft of the next chapter is a little short.

* * *

"Dean..." Sam's voice sounded small and panicked over the phone, like he was about to cry.

"What is it Sammy?" Dean asked, pushing away from the brick wall and the small group of punk rock stoners he'd been hanging out with after school. Normally he would have waited for Sam after class and gone straight home, but today Sam had insisted that he wanted to hang out on his own for a while, so Dean had taken the invitation to go downtown. The group of kids he was hanging out with were a pathetic lot, pretending to be morbid and jaded when they'd never seen a corpse up close before. They were only moderately more interesting than the other losers at high school, mainly because of the pretty girl in the biker jacket who kept giving him bedroom eyes.

"Dean, I think I just..." Sam stops, takes a deep breath, and continues even quieter. "I think I just killed a kid in the park."

Dean is headed towards where he parked the impala before the words even register properly. "Which park?"

"The one close to school. I hit his head... Dean, there's too much blood."

"Just stay calm, Sammy. I'm on my way. Keep out of sight for me, ok? I'll be there soon."

Dean waited for Sam's ok before he hung up and quickly dialled his father's number. Mobile phones were handy little dohickeys, and Dean was suddenly very glad that John insisted his boys never go anywhere without one. Dean barely waited until his father had picked up before he spoke; "Dad, Sammy just called me. He's at the park by our high school and he thinks he just killed some kid. He said there was a lot of blood."

John was silent for a moment, then Dean heard him sigh. "Alright," his father said, his gruff voice tired but calm. "You get to him as quick as you can, Dean. I'll be there in five minutes."

Dean was there in four. He pulled up next to the park in time to see his father's truck rounding the corner. The truck was a fairly recent development, only a year old and bought when it became clear that one mode of transportation between the three of them would not cut it. The truck allowed John the mobility to keep them all safe and financially secure while Dean drove himself and Sam to school in the impala.

Dean jumped out of the car, slammed the door shut, and scanned the immediate area first like he'd been taught to. It was eerily quiet for this time of the day, early evening with barely any shadows at all. He couldn't help but wonder if Sam was unconsciously using his abilities to make people stay away.

"Sam?" Dean called, for a moment unable to see his brother or the kid he'd supposedly killed.

"Over here, Dean." Sam's voice piped up from near the playground, and Dean turned in time to see his brother stand up - dirt smudged on his clothes, a few drops of darker brown on his shirt from a bloody nose.

Dean jogged over, unsure of what he was about to see. He was half expecting the kid to just be knocked out, concussed or unconscious. He wasn't expecting to see the kid staring blankly up at the sky, face slack, blood and something thicker congealing in the dirt around his head. The kid was definitely dead alright. Dean had seen quite a few that were deader, but the look of this body - no matter how fresh - and the angle of his limbs made it pretty clear that he was a goner even if you weren't looking at his head.

"Well... Fuck. Sam." Dean looked at his little brother, impressed despite himself. "You did that with your bare hands?"

"It was an accident," Sam insisted, raising a dirty hand to dab at his nose with a strangely pristine white handkerchief. Dean noticed that his eyes were red, and there were tear-tracks on his face. "I didn't mean to hit him so hard. Dad..."

Dean turned to see John Winchester looking down at the corpse with a small, thoughtful frown on his face. John rubbed a hand over his mouth and chin. He looked up and around, then finally at Sam. He only needed the one look to see that Sam was in no state to be helping out. "Sam, go wait in the truck."

The young teen hesitated, then nodded and made his way across the open park to John's truck. Only when Sam was sitting securely in the back seat did John look at his eldest.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "So where are we going to dump this one?"

John shook his head. "We'll need to bleach the body first. There's a warehouse on the edge of town." John sighed heavily. "We can make it look like a perversion."

Dean groaned. Perversion-killings sucked. They were always gross, he'd seen enough crime-scene photos to know that. He shut up at the look his father gave him, and grabbed the kid's legs while John took the mangled top half of the body. Together they manhandled the corpse into the boot of the impala, then went back to scuff the blood and slime into the dirt so it was indistinguishable from the other clumps of dirt and grass.

John gave Dean the address of the warehouse, then wiped his large hands on the back of his worn jeans. "I'm going to take Sam home. Don't get out of the car until I meet you there, Dean. I mean it."

"Jeez, dad." Dean rolled his eyes as he got into the car. "I know the drill."

"I know you do, Dean. Just be careful." John patted the hood of the impala, then turned and slouched off to the truck.

He didn't need to say that this was different. This was the first time Sam had killed anyone, and accidents needed to be taken care of with much more delicacy than the semi-planned killings that happened with guns and knives carried in John's gloved hands.

Dean drove to the warehouse and parked the car as close to the building as he could without looking suspicious. It was clear from the start that the place was empty, its few broken windows hadn't even been boarded up, the rusty gates blocking off the parking lot from the road hanging open and in ill repair. Dean sat in the car, tapping his fingers against his thigh as he listened to the radio, unconcerned about the body in his boot. He had a tarp spread out for just these occasions.

This wasn't the first time he'd helped his dad dispose of a corpse.

Dean waited a full half an hour before he saw his father's truck arrive. He didn't get out of the car until he could actually confirm that it was John hopping out of the truck, loaded down with gallon bottles of industrial grade bleach. The inside of the warehouse was dark and empty. They found an old barrel drum in place of a bathtub or vat, filled it just half full with the bleach and added stale water from a broken cooler to top it off to three quarters.

Rigor mortis had already begun to set in by the time they got the dead kid jammed into the barrel, which was easier said than done without slopping bleach all over the place. Between the two of them they managed it, and sat back to wait just long enough for the chemical to eat away all relevant evidence, but not enough time for it to start peeling back the skin and eating at the exposed tissue.

They dragged the corpse out of the barrel, soaking wet, clothes and hair faded to a greyish colour, skin bloodless and pale. The slightly brownish barrel full of bleach was tipped down the drain. Gloves made sure no fingerprints were left behind.

Then the body was stripped and wrapped up in a plastic sheet - really just a shower curtain that John had picked up on the way over - and stuffed back into the boot of the impala. Dean drove further into the industrial area of town, John's truck following close behind, and dumped the plastic-covered corpse into some scraggly bushes near a parking lot. The clothes were bundled up into a garbage bag and dumped several blocks away - close enough to be connected if found, far away enough that it wouldn't immediately be pegged as suspicious behaviour.

Dean followed his father's truck back home to the shabby little two bedroom house they were living in. Neither of them spoke until they were inside, leather gloves stripped off and Sam waiting anxiously at the kitchen table with his homework spread out untouched in front of him.

Sam bit his bottom lip, all puppy dog eyes and unshed tears.

John sighed and went over to ruffle his son's hair with a heavy palm. "We cleaned it up, Sam," he said softly, the same way other fathers might reassure their sons after a failed exam or sporting disaster. "Everything's going to be ok. Alright? Nobody is ever going to know."

Sam nodded, looking down at the paper and books strewn out in front of him. "Thanks..."

"Sam," John continued, a heavy hand falling to rest on his son's shoulder. "I know that was an accident, but you need to promise me you won t do anything like that again. Not unless you're in danger."

"My social life was in danger," Sam muttered rebelliously.

"You knock over liquor stores and kill the night shift if they call the cops," Dean pointed out, not exactly taking his brother's side but definitely throwing a spanner in the works.

"You know why I do that," John frowned, looking between both of his sons.

"Cops are bad," Sam replied, still pouting with as much conviction as a young teen could summon. Which was quite a lot. "Cops would split us up and put you in jail. Where you _belong_, because you_ kill _people. And commit fraud, and larceny."

"Killing someone for money is different than killing someone because they piss you off," John ground out, his eyes narrowing. Sam had just killed a kid, supposedly because the kid had done or said something to make Sam feel as though he was an outcast. While John felt for his son, he was just a little ticked off that Sam's first instinct was to kill first and think about the consequences later; And worse, to get snippy with him about it. It would only occur to him later that he hadn't thought to be concerned about Sam's lack of remorse.

"Sam's different." Dean shrugged. "Sam's part demon."

"So you think he's got a right to kill someone for - for what?" John demanded, eyeballing Sam in a way that made the teen squirm. The same way that usually preceded an order to clean the bathroom from top to bottom with a toothbrush and sickly-smelling detergent.

Sam couldn't look him in the eye, instead he remained staunchly staring down at his unfinished homework. "... For calling me a freak in front of Becky Gates. Now she wont talk to me."

"Dude, that sucks. What a dick."

"_Dean_."

The warning growl made Dean shut his mouth firmly and keep it that way.

"Sam," John said firmly, his tone even and controlled as he stressed the lesson. "You don't kill people because they annoy you. It's sloppy and a quick way to get caught."

Sam's pout grew more pronounced, then faded with a deep, long-suffering sigh. "Ok, dad. Sorry."

John nodded, accepting that as the best he was going to get from a moody teenager. He went to the fridge and pulled out a soda - it was too early for beer, and John always took it upon himself to set a good example. "Good job calling Dean," he said, popping the cap off the soda bottle. "You know I wont always be there to bail you out."

"I've got Sam's back, dad," Dean said, and put a hand on his brother's shoulder.

John had absolutely no doubts about that.

-

* * *

The first time social services caught up with John Winchester and his sons was when Sam was nearly fifteen. It was already years too late, they'd had plans in place ever since John had learned the lengths which hunters would go if they ever heard of a child with unnatural powers. It wasn't the first time child services had been on their tail, but John was usually there to smooth things over or to move his kids out before a proper investigation could be conducted.

This time was different. This time the social workers had used a different method of investigation. His name had been flagged on the system, so they had struck when John was at work - a legitimate job, held down under a false name and paid in cash - and Sam at school.

From what John would later learn he knew that Dean had tried charming the caseworkers who showed up on their doorstep, and politely refusing entry when the charm had failed. A blue piece of paper, a threat to call in the police, and Dean had been forced to let them in or throw up even more warning signs.

"I couldn't shoot them dead on the doorstep, dad," Dean had said, agitated and nervously running his hands through his hair. "Someone would've seen, or heard. Middle of the fucking day, two smarmy cunts with their goddamn paperwork. Blood on the fucking footpath."

John just sighed. He knew what it would have looked like. Guns and knives all over the place, Dog-eared books on the occult, on demons and rituals. A spare pair of blood-stained leather gloves sitting right on top of the TV.

He shoved Dean towards his truck. "It's time to move on," he told his son grimly. "We stake out the house until we have a clear opportunity, then we pack up and go."

Dean's jaw tightened. For a moment he looked like he wanted to argue, but in the end he nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Just lucky you're too old to be shoved into foster care," John muttered. He sat in the driver's seat, hands tight against the wheel. As much as he wanted to stay - as much as every paternal fibre in his body was telling him to stay - he knew it would only make things worse. The evidence they would find, even after he and Dean grabbed the worst of it and lit out of town, would be damning. Sam knew the drill, he knew what to say and how to act. He would lay low, then get word to them when he could, so they could come and get him.

John just hoped his youngest son could control his temper. They didn't need any unusual accidents to occur to the people working his case. A high turnover would only prolong the process.

It was two in the morning before they could get close enough to the house to sneak under the crime scene tape that had popped up across the front door and pack up what was left inside. The guns were gone, as were a couple of the knives. Most of the books were missing, the gloves, and a few miscellaneous articles about the place; Including a small stack of expired credit cards and the two fake IDs Dean had been forced to leave behind when he'd left to get to John at work.

They packed up what they could, mostly clothes and what few bits and pieces the cops had left behind. Left through a different way just in case, and dumped the bags in the back of the truck before taking off again. The impala was still at a parking lot a couple of blocks away from the auto shop John had been working at. He dropped his son off at the car and waited until he saw the headlights in his rear-view before he took off, headed for the next town over before sunrise, and the next state as soon as possible.

Experience had made it very clear that the faster you got away, the easier it was to stay away.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam saw the problem straight away as soon as he got to the principal's office. He was no stranger to this part of administration, having been sent in several times in the past year; Mostly because of concerned teachers who believed he was being bullied. Maybe once to talk about the possibility of skipping a grade next year.

This time was different. This time it wasn't the principal waiting for him, or a concerned guidance counsellor. It was a woman in a conservative blouse and navy blue skirt, a briefcase sitting at her feet as she waited. He recognised her immediately, the too-sweet smile the exact same kind he'd seen before on TV.

Sam stuck his hands in his pockets and played shy, looking away and biting his bottom lip.

"Sam Winchester?" The woman stuck out a hand, soft but unmanicured, and her smile widened unconvincingly. "My name is Justine Puryer. I'm a social worker with the Children s Services department."

"I know," Sam said quietly, looking at her shoes and not at her face. "I mean, I figured..."

"Your principal tells me that you're a very smart boy," Justine's smile turned sympathetic. "So I know you know exactly why I'm here, don't you? Why don't we step into the office so we can talk properly. There are just a few questions I need to ask."

Sam followed her into the office. He knew better than to run, knew better than to advertise the fact that he wanted to run. He was smarter than she thought, and he planned on using that to his advantage. "It's my dad, isn't it?" he asked before he had even sat down. "Was he arrested?"

Justine hesitated, then answered with a question; "Do you think he should be arrested?"

Sam shrugged. He made the gesture as forlorn as he could. "I dunno." He looked up. "What about my brother? My brother's Ok, right? Couldn't he take care of me?"

"Sam, I think you know that your brother is part of the problem."

The next hour was a constant discourse of dull, ridiculous questions that Sam answered with either negatives or shrugs. No, his father never hit him. No, he was never touched in a bad way. Yes, his father loved him... No, he didn't know if his father was responsible for killing anyone.

Sam answered questions about guns, about the occult. He cooperated without giving anything away. He agreed that his situation wasn't ideal, that it wasn't normal. He agreed that it would be best if the state took him into custody, and nodded when Justine asked whether he'd be ok coming back to the office to get him processed and find him a temporary place to stay until foster parents could be found.

-

* * *

He waited until he was at the halfway house to show any sign of temper.

Police had combed their house from top to bottom, that much was obvious. Sam had been given a bag with a few changes of clothes, a new toothbrush (he supposed they didn't know which one was his), and a couple of books. His pocket knife had been confiscated, and the .45 he carried around while not in school was clearly not going to be handed over.

Sam paced back and forth in front of the bunk bed he'd been given. As far as he knew he was alone in the room, but there were several other people in the house itself. He clenched his hands into fists, his eyes flashing yellow. The entire house shook, rumbling as if in some kind of earthquake; Clocks jumped off walls, ornaments broke, and the fire alarm inexplicably started wailing.

Exhausted from the burst of energy, Sam slumped down on the bed still fully clothed. He was asleep before the alarm even stopped.

-

* * *

Dean picked the motel while John went out and got dinner. They'd come to that agreement at a rest-stop just outside of town, that it was best if Dean checked in to the motel just in case John had finally made the most wanted list. It was overcautious, but that was how they operated.

John used cash to buy takeout dinners through a drive through and by the time he got back Dean was waiting for him outside a motel suite in the parking lot.

"I don't like this," Dean said, arms crossed over his chest as his father approached.

"Too bad," John replied frankly. "This is what you get."

"I meant Sam."

"So did I." John stared at his son for a moment, a small and silent battle of wills.

Dean sighed and uncrossed his arms. He unlocked the motel door and both men stepped inside. The space was spartan, furnished only with the most basic of furniture and utilities. The cord on the electric jug was frayed. The time displayed on the microwave was wrong. Two beds with plain white linen took up most of the available space. John took the bed closest to the door, leaving Dean by the tiny green bathroom.

With a relatively large space around them, John took stook of what gear they had left. Two hunting knives, a couple of smaller speciality blades, several small handguns, and the two large arms left in the back of the truck. And one old fashioned straight razor with a bone handle.

Funds were low. Depressingly so. John frowned at the small stack of cash in his money clip. He doubted Dean was any better off, and Dean's resigned nod and empty wallet confirmed it.

"Spent the last on the room," Dean told him, throwing his wallet down onto his bed in disgust. "We've got it for a week."

"We'll need more than what we have," John mused, frowning and absently tucking a handgun into his jacket.

"I'm coming with you," Dean said, off the bed and grabbing one of the guns without a second thought. "I want to splatter brains."

"Dean, temper wont get you anywhere." John stood, remembering the gloves in the back seat of the truck. "You follow my lead. Anger makes you sloppy, boy. We don't shoot to kill until we have Sammy back. Killings will get too much attention - you shoot to the legs, understand?"

"I know."

"I need to know I can count on you."

Dean shook his head, most of the anger draining from the set of his shoulders. He smiled at his father and it was far from relaxed, but it wasn't the livid, white-hot blade of a smile that Dean got when he was about to be reckless. "You know you can, Dad."

They drove two hours before finding a suitable store to knock over. The process was efficient, as smooth as any heist had ever gone. Dean shot the clerk in the knee when he went for the silent alarm and that was that. A quick six hundred in cash, minus one bullet. They were already long gone by the time the cops actually showed up.

The CCTV footage was too low quality to see much of their faces. They could have been anyone.

-

* * *

Sam made the other kids in the halfway house nervous and he knew it. He made the carers nervous too, though they explained away their uneasiness by saying that they weren't used to a kid who seemed so well adjusted. They weren't used to cooperation, or offers to help with chores. They were used to sullen, scared or moody teens who had to be prodded and cajoled into doing anything.

Sam was different. He was polite, intelligent, and never once tried any of the usual tricks that kids often tried to test authority and see how far they could push. He smiled with a happy, innocent charm that made his cheeks dimple and his brown eyes glow.

It was that smile that go this paperwork fast-tracked. The calm, quiet and studious facade what got him slotted straight into a foster home only a week later.

The house was painted salmon pink on the outside, and boasted a homey, old-timey decor. The bedrooms were big, and furnished like hotel rooms; Done in matching colours and little personality, ready to be decorated with extra posters and different bedspreads.

The foster-parents, Oscar and Hayley Stuart, seemed the kind that planned for their kids to stay on long term. They already had two other children under their care, a ten year old and a thirteen year old, both boys. Both who had been in the system before.

Sam played nice. He listened to the talk about house rules with quiet attentiveness. He agreed to do set chores and start his homework straight after school each day. He agreed to talk to his foster-parents about any concerns he had, or to come to them if he wanted to talk about his past.

Then he retreated to the room they'd sectioned off as his and the act dropped. He slid under the bed to scrawl protection runes on the hardwood floors in red crayon. He added a devil's trap under the rug in the middle of the room just in case, knowing full well that it was entirely possible that if a demon got wind of his presence it would come after him. He was vulnerable here.

He wondered how long it would be until he could get word to his father and Dean to come get him.

-

* * *

The police came to talk to him several times. After the fifth discussion that involved nothing but faked innocence Sam was sent to a child psychiatrist for evaluation. He answered two questionnaires before he even got to see the man face to face.

Sam kept his sweet, perfect smile in place through the chat. The only sign of how livid the psychiatrist's questions made him were his eyes, which burned bright and yellow throughout most of the interview. At the end he was pronounced certifiably sane, and as well-adjusted as any teenager from a normal, happy household.

As meanwhile the psychiatrist set up an appointment for himself with his GP to discuss the disturbing hallucinations he'd begun having.

-

* * *

Hot, sticky blood coated the thin suede gloves. The razor blade was stained, a red so dark it was almost purple. Arterial blood. Carotid blood, from a python as long as his body.

Dean chanted bastardised Latin from a book that was practically falling apart at the seams while John used his gloved hands to paint symbols onto the floor in blood. Dean didn't recognise the symbols, or the quatrain he was repeating. He felt that was something of a feat, considering the dabbling in various forms of the black arts he'd witnessed over the years. Most of the things he'd seen were glorified blessings, charms meant to protect or to discourage harm from befalling the subject.

This was something different.

After three repetitions Dean stopped the chanting. He looked at his father.

"You wanted to be here for this," John said to him, peeling the bloody gloves from his hands and tossing them into a metal drum with the dead snake. "Get the girl."

The girl was sixteen years old, blonde, and as pretty as any other girl who'd grown up on fresh air and wholesome fun. She was bound at the wrists and ankles, gagged with a strip of towelling that was tied tight enough that it bit into her cheeks. Dean pulled her up with his hands under her armpits and dragged her sobbing, doped up form across the floor.

John pointed to the centre of the circle. So that was where Dean dropped her.

"What now?"

"Now you sit back and keep your mouth shut," John instructed his son, using the razor blade to slice through the zip ties around the girl's ankles.

For a moment Dean was sure he was going to witness his father performing some kind of ritual rape and hid his disgust behind a practiced smirk. But then John picked up the chanting where Dean had left off. The light fixture overhead sparked; It flared and died. True darkness descended just as John cut the ties holding the girl's wrists together.

The gloom parted just as suddenly as it had arrived. The girl stood in the centre of the circle, her hands raised to pull the gag from around her head. When she spoke it was nothing like the panicked pleading Dean had heard when they'd first got the drop on her. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you right now."

"Me and my boy can send you back to hell," John stated. He looked up rather pointedly at the devil's trap painted on the low ceiling just above the circle on the ground. "Looks to me like you're stuck."

The girl's face contorted into a haze of anger. She opened her mouth in a scream of rage and darkness thrashed through the cylindrical cage. When she shut her mouth again it twisted into a wry little smile. "So," she said. "You got me. Very smart, but you can't hold me here forever."

"I'm counting on you getting loose," John replied. "Dean, the water bottle from my bag."

"Holy water coming up," Dean said, playing his part perfectly despite not knowing what the hell was going on. He tossed the bottle to his father and stood back to watch as John unscrewed the cap.

"I want to make a deal." John's smile was like steel, as cold and forbidding as any demon.

The girl - the demon - in the circle laughed. "A deal? You have to be joking."

"All demons can make them, in one form or another. For this one, all you have to do is agree to do what I say until I release you." The smile wiped itself from John's face. "Or I send you back to hell, still smoking from all the salt and holy water we throw in there with you."

"That's not a deal, that's servitude!"

"Servitude or suicide. It's your choice."

Without so much as batting an eyelid John flung the contents of the water bottle on the demon in the circle. The water hissed and sizzled as it came into contact with the girl's face, and angry red welts appeared across her cheeks and mouth. She raised her hands, ineffectively scrabbling at the water and trying to wipe it off.

"You're new," John said calmly. "Or you would have known not to show up to this summoning. I specified, you fit the specifications. Make the deal and serve me, or go screaming back to hell."

The demon said nothing. John nodded at Dean, and in response Dean tossed a handful of rock salt into the circle at the girl's bare feet. The salt covered the ground in a fine layer, a perfect torture for a being that couldn't stand to touch it. A look of anguish crossed the girl's face.

"Alright!" She snapped, stopping Dean before he could sift another handful of salt across the floor and deepen the layer of agony. "Alright! I'll make the deal!"

"Swear," John said, producing a small, blunt knife with crosses carved deeply into the handle. He held it out, handle-first, so that the tip just pierced the invisible wall that the demon couldn't cross. "Cut it into your arm and swear that you'll do exactly what I say until I release you from your bond."

Only after the cut was made, the words repeated in an angry hiss, and demon blood was dripping on the floor did John step through the barrier himself. He had learned his lesson where demons were concerned.

"Firstly," John said, taking back the knife and wrapping the blood-stained article in a clean white handkerchief, "you do not, by any means you can think of, hurt my sons or myself. Understand?"

The demon in the girl's body nodded sullenly. "Understood."

John Winchester would never trust a demon, but now he knew how to use their one and only mark of honour against them. A demon could not break the terms of a deal. Negotiate, yes. Twist and change, certainly. But deals made could not be broken, not even by the demon who made them.

He sent the demon off with instructions to find Sam. To observe, not engage, and to report back with its findings. The devil's trap on the ceiling was scratched through and made redundant, and the girl the demon inhabited beat a hasty exit. John watched her go, keeping an eye out to make sure he hadn't missed something that would allow her to double back and kill them.

When he finally turned away it was to see his son looking at him as if he'd never really seen John before.

"When were you going to teach us that little trick?" Dean demanded, brushing a fine layer of salt from his fingers.

"That trick is very dark magic, Dean." John walked calmly over to the metal drum with his gloves and the dead snake and poured lighter fluid inside before striking a match and dropping the whole book in with it. "It's not something anyone should use lightly and you weren't ready for it."

"Not ready?" Dean scoffed, shoving the bits and pieces they still needed back into the bag John kept all of the collected mystical paraphernalia he had. "Why the fuck wouldn't I be ready?"

"Humans are never really ready for demons," John stated firmly. "When your brother is older he might be, but not you. Not us, Dean. We're human, and you better remember that."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes**: Just remember that it's all in your imagination and we'll get along just fine.

* * *

The colours of the school uniform were black, white and yellow. The stripes on the tie and the piping on the cuffs of his blazer made Sam feel like a giant bumblebee, which was not a pleasant feeling for someone who already didn't want to be there.

It was a private school, something that had surprised Sam until he realised that the school provided scholarships for other charity cases like him in order to appear fashionably altruistic towards the less fortunate. His uniform and textbooks were second hand, some of the book jackets vandalised with scribblings from previous owners. At least one of his science books was out of date. The only good thing that came with being sent to this new school was that the administration had evidently decided that his scores for the entrance exam and previous school records indicated that he was eligible to skip a grade.

Subsequently Sam found himself in classes with people a year, sometimes two years, older than he was. An outcast without even needing to say or do anything.

He spent his lunch breaks studying in the library or sitting outside on his own practicing his meditation. In the first week he was pulled aside twice by boys who thought themselves tough. Sam easily proved tougher. He broke fingers and stole a rich white kid's butterfly knife, not getting into trouble only because nobody wanted to admit that they'd been bested by the gangly, shaggy-haired youth from the poor side of town.

He saw the blonde girl for the first time in his second week, a transfer student from interstate. A military brat, or so he heard. She was in his grade, which made her only a year older than he was. Her name was Jessica, and Sam knew without even getting close to her that she was different. Not different in that sappy, ridiculous way that led to schoolboy crushes, but different in the sense of power. Sam had a feeling that Jessica was dangerous, that she wasn't what she appeared to be.

Sam would swear he saw her tailing him home once or twice.

Then it seemed that the very moment he decided he'd had enough she was gone. Jessica just clean disappeared. Even the administration had no idea why she wasn't turning up at school or how long she would be gone. She was gone for one and a half weeks - seven working days - before she appeared again.

Sam followed her movements on Wednesday and Thursday, before trapping her in a girl's bathroom on Friday.

He ducked in after her and wedged the main door shut. The windows were too high and too small for her to make an escape that way. Sam had his knife, and his abilities. If he was wrong and she screamed, she'd only live to regret it.

"You were following me before you left," Sam said, coming up behind her where she stood in front of the mirrors. "Why?" As he approached her a feeling of wrongness buzzed in his head. His eyes narrowed as he identified the thing that was out of place. "Demon."

Her eyes flashed inky black in the mirror for barely a second. Sam had his knife in hand before he remembered that it would do no good.

"Your dad sent me," Jessica said, turning to face him. "Don't stab me," she added, folding her arms in front of her stomach in a move that was almost self conscious, "I like this body. It's all soft and squishy."

"Dad wouldn't send a demon," Sam replied, eyes narrowed. "If you're from the demon who was there at my conception I don't want anything to do with either of you."

"John Winchester," Jessica glared right back at him. "The human. I was sent by him, alright?"

"My dad," Sam repeated, "wouldn't send a demon."

"I'm bound," the demon told him snippily, sounding more like the teenaged girl and less like a creature of darkness. "So why don't you just get off your stupid high horse, you filthy little half-breed son of a whore. I just got back from telling him all about the house and the family you're staying with."

Sam looked her up and down, playing with the knife in his hand. After a moment's thought he tucked the weapon back into his pocket, outwardly unarmed and harmless. "Let s say that you're telling the truth," he mused aloud. "And dad is really going to come next week."

"We don't actually lie, you know. That's a fallacy you tell yourselves so you can feel better."

"Why would he send you back now?"

Jessica gripped the row of sinks behind her, tilting her head to the side and letting her blonde hair fall over one shoulder. "I'm supposed to make sure you're still here where you're meant to be. So easy," she sighed, "and so boring."

Sam watched her. It didn't make sense to him. He just couldn't see it. Even if she was telling the truth it didn't make sense for John to send her back just to tell him that he was coming. Sam knew not to run yet, he knew not to make waves and get himself sent to another home. If she was telling the truth then there was only one reason Sam could think of, why his father would send her back.

He took a deep breath. "Ok," he said aloud.

Sam focussed. He let his mind go blank, turning over into the space where he went when he made things break and move with just his imagination.

Jessica frowned at him. She looked ill, then surprised. "What are you -?"

Her sentence was cut short by a cough, a tiny plume of blackness puffing out of her mouth. Sam felt something in him pulse in response, foreign and powerful. Jessica gasped for air, sucking the blackness back inside only to cough more out. It dripped from her chin like thick black slime, hissing where it fell on the tiles that covered the bathroom floor. Her hands flew to her mouth, trying in vain to keep the stuff inside her as it bubbled through the gaps in her fingers.

She cried it out in tears that streaked bluish lines down her cheeks while Sam clenched his teeth against pain that pounded his temples. He felt something dripping from his nose and tasted blood.

His eyes flashed yellow and Jessica collapsed, spewing the last of the dark, inky liquid from her nose and mouth.

Sam sagged, stumbling back until he caught himself on the edge of a bathroom stall. He raised a hand and wiped the blood from his nose with a sleeve. He felt triumph through the headache that pounded with his pulse.

The girl on the floor - he wondered if her name was really Jessica - twitched and groaned, curling in on herself. She lay like that for several long seconds, then hesitantly pushed herself up onto her hands and knees. When she looked at him it was with a mixture of fear and gratitude.

"Th-thank y-you." Her voice came out raw, barely above a whisper.

"I didn't do it for you," Sam told her, the cuff of his blazer still pressed against his nose. "Were you awake?"

"What?" She blinked, and coughed a little, still sitting on the bathroom floor.

"While you were possessed, could you still see what was going on?"

"Y-yes." The girl shivered.

Sam frankly didn't care how she was feeling or what she might have been forced to witness. "Is my dad coming?"

The girl looked up at him, fear flashing across her face. She wrapped her arms around herself and pulled her legs up closer to her body. "Yes," she nodded. "J-John Winchester, like it s-said."

Sam left here there on the bathroom floor. He stopped at a different bathroom to carefully mop up the residual blood from under his nose, then went back to class. He packed his bag over the weekend, and started keeping a close eye on the surrounding neighbourhood.

-

* * *

The car was sleek and huge, a classic black beauty with an engine that rumbled and purred, windows tinted just enough that you couldn't get a clear view of who was behind the wheel.

Sam was looking out the window during his history class when he caught sight of the massive black car driving slowly past the school at barely five miles an hour, way too slow to be coincidental. He stared at the car until it was out of sight, wishing the classroom wasn't so far away from the road so he could have read the licence plate.

He saw the car a second time during lunch, idling on the side of the road opposite the school.

Sam went right up to the fence for a better look. He grinned when the window rolled down and Dean's face smirked at him from the driver's seat. Without another thought Sam walked straight out of the school gates and crossed the road to stand by the side of the car. He leaned down to speak to Dean through the open window.

"Now?"

Dean shook his head. "Cut class in a school like that and they call your parents. Dad wants you to go home after school and grab your stuff, then tell your jailers you're going to study at someone's place or something. We'll pick you up at six by the gas station two blocks from your house."

"Shit." Sam sighed. "I was hoping you were going to get me out of English."

"No such luck, Sammy." Dean grinned. "So did you kill that demon bitch or what?"

Sam nodded. "It was gross, like it dissolved or something."

"Dad owes me a twenty."

"You bet on me killing a demon?" Sam asked incredulously. "Dude, you're such an asshole."

"At least I bet you'd win." Dean dug in the glove box and produced a generic prepaid cell. He shoved the phone into Sam's hands. "Call us if something goes wrong, ok?"

Sam crossed the road and trudged back into the school. When he looked back over his shoulder the black beauty was already disappearing into the distance. He checked that the phone was on silent and tucked it into his blazer and out of sight. He responded to the semi-suicidal call of 'Hey Winchester, was that your boyfriend' with a bland-voiced "eat me".

He hasn't cared for what the other students thought since he was sent to this high school. He's not about to start caring now.

-

* * *

It was so insanely easy to get away that Sam almost felt sorry for his foster parents. He thought about all of the paperwork they'd have to do, the investigation to determine whether he ran away or was kidnapped, and he smiled slightly. Sam hoisted his backpack onto one shoulder and leaned against the wall. It was ten to six and he stood outside the gas station, an open can of coke in his hand and a chocolate bar stuffed into a pocket.

That was dinner, if Dean or their father hadn't picked anything up. Sam was pretty sure they'd be driving all night, maybe all day too. That was the drill when trouble got too close for comfort. Just fuck off to the next state and keep going after that until they found somewhere quiet to settle for a while. Then it would be six months with a new identity, in some new cottage or apartment, playing at being a normal guy with a normal family.

Sam sipped his coke and mused on the subject of normal.

Normal kids got cd players and video games for their birthdays, Sam got books written in Latin or new weaponry. Normal kids had fathers who went to work in the morning and came home in the evening, nine to five jobs, labour jobs, with weekends off and time to sit down to dinner as a family. Sam had a father who worked scams and performed petty larceny to augment the cash pay from whatever part time job he'd picked up to keep the bills paid. Sam had a father who killed people, who laid down salt lines to keep the demons away.

If a normal kid shot someone in the face with a .45 their father would be horrified, would wonder where he went wrong, and would pay for lawyers and sit in the court to offer moral support.

If one of John Winchester's sons shot someone he helped them hide the body. If that someone was a hunter, or a cop, chances were good that he'd shoot the guy again himself, just to make sure they were dead.

At two minutes to six a familiar four-wheel truck pulled into the gas station. The car stopped only a few feet away from Sam, and when the door swung open it framed John's smiling face. "Hey, Sam."

Sam grinned back. He threw his bag into the truck and climbed into the front passenger seat. "Hey, dad. Where's Dean?"

"Your brother is in the impala," John explained, barely waiting until Sam had shut the car door before driving away. "He's picking up some take out. We thought you'd be hungry, if you skipped dinner."

"Yeah, I did. The Stuarts wont think to call anyone for a few hours. I'm not supposed to be back until ten."

John nodded. That was a few good driving hours to start them off. They made idle chitchat for the twenty minute drive that took them to the impala. Sam told his father about the foster home and the school while John told his son about the things he and Dean had done to keep occupied and out of sight.

Sam was just about to finish off how he'd killed the demon riding Jessica when they pulled to a stop in a parking lot outside a diner. "How did you manage to bind a demon anyway?" Sam asked.

"A dangerous ritual that I don't want you boys repeating," John said, in his 'no arguments' tone. He nodded to a figure just emerging from the diner, a convenient distraction from the subject of dangerous voudou. "There's Dean."

"Do you mind if I ride with him?" Sam asked, already half out of the truck before he'd finished speaking.

John shook his head. "Go ahead. He's got the food anyway."

-

* * *

"So where are we going anyway?" Sam asked, half asleep in the back seat of the impala. His wrist watch told him it was already some time after midnight and Dean had been drinking caffeine-laden soft drinks to keep himself awake and alert while Thin Lizzy played softly through the car's speakers. Easy listening music that wouldn't keep Sam awake.

"We're going to Colorado," Dean replied, looking at his brother's shadowy form through the rear-view. "Dad knows this cabin there. We're going to lie low for a couple of months before we decide where we're going next."

"A cabin?" Sam asked, a little incredulous.

"Yeah. No shit, a cabin. I think it used to belong to our grandfather or something."

"So dad wants us to go to a place steeped in family history? That's so stupid. That could get us caught."

"Dad knows what he's doing," Dean shrugged. "Or I hope he damnwell does."

That was the end of that conversation. Sam fell asleep soon afterwards and only woke up when Dean prodded him. It was already light, and Dean had smudged shadows under his eyes. "Get up," he said, "it's your turn to drive."

Sam got into the driver's seat without complaint. He was tall enough to pass for the age on his fake driver's licence without any problems so he didn't worry about getting pulled over. The licence had a fake name, and he'd noticed that the car's plates had been changed again. Sam turned on the radio and tapped his fingers against the steering wheel while his brother snored in the back seat. After about ten minutes on the road he caught up to their father's truck again, and he had to wonder just how long John was going to be able to go without crashing.

It turned out to be five more hours.

Sam followed the truck onto the shoulder of the road, pulling over to see what was up. He walked over to the window to talk to John, who looked exhausted.

"You boys swapped out at six this morning?"

"Yes, sir," Sam agreed with a nod.

"Give it another hour here," John sighed, "and send Dean over here. He drives to the next motel, then we stop for some rest and skip out before morning."

Sam nodded again and left his father to get some well-deserved rest. They'd done similar things ever since Sam was tall enough to learn how to drive. He spent the next hour napping until his watch alarm went off, then he woke Dean and sent his brother off to the truck. Within minutes they were back on the road again.

The motel they crashed at was a plain little nothing of an establishment, which was just fine with them. They rented a room with one single and one double bed, the only one available with two beds at all, and crashed with the door locked, salt lines down over all possible entrances. John took the single, leaving Dean and Sam to fight it out for space on the double.

In the end the two of them wound up falling asleep on top of the covers, Sam's hand covering half of Dean's face, and Dean's heel digging into Sam's shin. It was a good thing they made it work because when they finally got to the cabin several days later it was to discover that there were only two bedrooms. And only two beds.

"Don't drool on me," Dean said, dropping exhausted onto one side of the futon bed, his duffle bag dumped just inside the door.

"Don't stick your hand up my shirt and you've got a deal."

"Bitch." The word was muttered, half asleep already.

Sam shook his head and claimed the other side of the bed. "Jerk."

Two months at the cabin passed with relative ease. John took his sons out to hunt the local wildlife in order to keep their skills with knives and guns sharp. He made Sam shoot three full clips into a target painted on a tree on the edge of the overgrown back yard before he was satisfied that the youngest Winchester hadn't lost his touch. The tree died just days later, and it wasn't much of a surprise.

By the time they were ready to leave the Winchesters had already decided where they'll be going next and the identities they'll be using. It had been discussed in the evenings over dinners put together from grocery-store vegetables and rabbits or venison.

-

* * *

The next time Child Services caught up with the Winchesters they were using the false name 'Wellington' and Sam was four months from seventeen. He killed the social worker before she could get word to her office.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes**: We resume our regularly scheduled programming after this, which is the end. If for some insane reason you liked this world, then check out the other 'Angelface' stories or hold your breath for the first chapter of _Shrapnel_ which should be up this time next week.

I hate to beg, but please review if you liked it.

* * *

John Winchester was only forty-nine years old when he died. He didn't go quietly in his sleep. It wasn't illness or a previously unknown heart condition. He died in a shoot-out that made the evening news on more than one channel in a nationwide broadcast. Within hours of being pronounced dead the details were leaked to the internet, including the placement and calibre of each bullet that had torn through his body.

John had known he was going to die hours before it had happened, hours before he had sat in the front seat of his truck with a pistol in his hand and a loaded shotgun sitting on the seat beside him. He was prepared for his end. He knew where he was going. And he knew there would be plenty of familiar faces to greet him.

The good news, he thought to himself in his last moments, bleeding out from a dozen places as paramedics lifted him onto a gurney, was that sooner or later he would see his sons again.

Hell never intended to keep you there forever.

-

* * *

John was bone weary but thankful that he had his boys back. He sat on the edge of a motel bed, his boots undone but not yet removed from his feet. Dean looked equally as exhausted, and Sam was almost dead on his feet. Both boys sat on the other bed in front of the TV, watching the newscast about their daring escape.

"... two young men that were apprehended were actually known killers and serial murderers Sam and Dean Winchester, the sons of the notorious Black Truck Killer. It has been confirmed that the Black Truck Killer, ex-military man John Winchester, is responsible for the deaths of at least twenty men and women nationwide. His sons already appear to be following in his footsteps with a confirmed death toll of five people between the two of them over the past four years."

Here Sam and Dean high-fived, though John noticed their enthusiasm was sapped by the earlier events of the day.

"More like ten," Dean said with a weary grin. "Not that those dicks are smart enough to figure it out."

"Shut up," Sam replied, bumping shoulders with his brother, "you're missing it."

The TV screen displayed their photos, mug shots released to the media to hopefully aid their capture. The photos of the boys were recent, and for a moment John looked at them from an outsider's perspective and saw two handsome, carefree youths; One sweet and shy, the other bold and charming. Together they looked like the classic stereotyped narcissistic sociopaths, beautiful boys who lured people in with charm but didn't give a damn about anyone but themselves.

By contrast John's photo was years old. He was glowering at the camera, an intimidating figure in black and white with angry eyes and an intense stare. He looked like the hard military disciplinarian that they painted him as. A man who no doubt abused his children and brainwashed them from an early age into following his path.

John looked at his boys. He had done what he'd thought was right. He had taken the path of family first and screw all obstacles. He'd embraced Sam's powers, his uniqueness, and taught Dean how to kill and cover his tracks so he could look after his little brother.

John had moulded them into what they were today.

Killers, yes. Unrepentant. But they were loyal, they were survivors. He had armed them against the unique dangers that they faced.

There was more work to do yet.

John stood and walked in his loose, untied boots across the room. With a flick of a switch he turned the TV off. "That's enough," he told his sons. "You're both exhausted."

"Are you sending us to bed, dad?" Sam asked, grinning at him despite the dark rings under his eyes and the way weariness made his lanky body just a little unsteady.

"Can we have a glass of milk and a story?" Dean added, though he was already stripping down to his t-shirt and boxers.

"Go to bed, boys," John said, turning off the lights. He stowed his boots neatly at the foot of the bed, folded his clothing and left it within reach. John could hear his sons fumbling around in the dark for a minute, then the sound of covers being pulled back and the squeak of old bed springs.

His boys had been in a police holding cell for five hours before he had come to get them out. John resolved not to let that happen again.

-

* * *

"Dude, your knee is in my back again."

"So move your back. This is comfortable."

"If you don't move I'm going to smother you with my pillow."

The bed springs creaked. "God, you're such a whiny little bitch sometimes."

"Fuck you, Dean."

"No. Fuck you, Sammy. You kick. It's like my shins are being trampled by freaking Godzilla."

"Boys," the warning was a sleepy bass growl, "go to sleep."

-

* * *

The car was filled with silence. A steeping, heavy sort of quiet that kept the radio muted and the sound of the rattling windows loud. They were on the road back to the Cabin to mourn, with John's bones buried deep in the trunk.

"It was stupid," Dean said for the second time in as many days. He spoke to the wheel, and not the figure hunched in the passenger seat. "We were stupid."

"We were arrogant," Sam responded quietly, facing the window.

The black beauty rattled around a final corner and the Cabin came into view. They unpacked in silence, and Sam let Dean take the room that still had its door. He knew that Dean preferred the illusion of privacy when he was upset. John's bones - his journal, his leather gloves, and his razor - were laid out on the old couch. His body would be buried in a convicts grave, marked only by a number. A pine coffin issued by the state would house his frame as it decayed.

Sam sat at the tiny kitchen table and let his mind dwell on morbid thoughts.

Dean emerged from the closed bedroom several hours later. Aside from the red that rimmed his eyes he showed no sign of having cried, but Sam knew anyway. They took their father's gloves out into the backyard and buried them, the site left unmarked.

"'I'm going to Hell'," Dean read from John's journal later that evening, "'to burn in the eternal fires for as long as it takes to make me one of them. I've made my bed and I will lie in it.' Second-last entry, right after a photo of us as kids."

"What's the last entry?" Sam asked, even though he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

Dean flicked the page. "'Don't do anything stupid. Family first.' Shit. As if we needed the reminder."

Sam watched the way Dean's fingers caressed the paper under his hands and knew without any uncertainty what his brother was feeling. He was feeling it too. "We're all that's left now," Sam pointed out. "Dad's dead and we're officially wanted serial murderers. Hunters and demons are still going to be chasing us."

"So what the fuck do we do?" Dean asked. He closed the journal. "We stick it out, we fuck around and have fun. Life's just a waiting period before death, right?"

"And we're going to Hell anyway."

"So why not damnwell enjoy the ride?" Dean set the journal down on the couch beside him and stretched his legs out in front of him. "We'll take a week here, then we'll pull out the maps. You've got a week to figure out where you want to go, baby brother."

-

* * *

John could feel his life start slipping away as he fell to his knees on the pavement. His gun was empty of rounds, he had holes in him from standard police-issue bullets. It was hard to breathe. His body rebelled, trying to cough with a collapsed lung. The fact that he had managed to shoot at least three of the cops was no consolation.

He couldn't help but think that the old saying about a person's life flashing before their eyes was untrue. John didn't see his whole life. He was just remembering one moment, one defining moment back in the past.

John remembered sitting up late at night when both Sam and Dean were asleep, after he had finally gotten his hands on enough information to know what Sam would grow up to be. The boy was only four years old and just two months ago John had shot a hunter who had wanted to kill him. John held the gun in his hands, he felt the weight of it and the world on his shoulders.

He looked at his son, sleeping tucked up tight in the single bed by the wall, his tiny hands curled up by his head. Screw it, he thought, and tucked the gun away under his pillow where it belonged. Screw the world. Fuck them all, he was never going to give up his son.

John lay on the pavement for twenty minutes, surrounded by men in uniforms. By the time the ambulance arrived he knew there would be no way to save him. His last words were a laugh. Then he slipped away into darkness.

"Johnny-boy," the voice that greeted him was familiar; the visage the demon presented itself in a mirror of his own. "It's so good to see you again."

John braced himself for the pain.


End file.
